Lazarus
by Ridire Dorcha
Summary: It's two years after the outbreak of the Lazarus Virus. Follow Corporal Jesse Anderson as he recounts the events of the undead apocalypse through his eyes. How did it all begin? How did he survive the two years since the outbreak? How can he hope to survive another two years?
1. Prologue

**Author's Note: This story will contain some strong language, some gore, violence, and some adult themes.**

Hello?

_I can hear you, just speak into the mic and do your best to speak clearly._

Testing…

Testing… Is this thing on? I'm not seeing anything picking up on the recorder.

_What do you mean? I'm showing it coming through on this display. It's the same setup you'll have in your barracks. We're just training you here so you know what you're doing._

I told them I'm terrible with this shit. I don't know why they want me to record this, it's not like I'm on the front lines with a lot of the other guys. I'm just a watchman, not exactly the man sent out on the dangerous missions.

_We're just trying to give you the opportunity to get things off of your chest, so you don't succumb to the stresses of this war._

Am I going to be the only one to know what I say in these recordings, or will the brass be listening in on them?

_This is completely anonymous. The only person who has access to your files is you. Your computer will only be accessed if you have authorized their usage for records should you die in the line of duty._

Yeah, as if dying now is a permanent thing.

_You should already know the policy on what we do if someone is bitten or killed by a Z._

A round to the head, severing the brain stem… Yes, I know. It's only been bashed into our brains since this shit started.

_Right… Let's see what's wrong with this thing. Let me take a look… You see that little icon there? It means the program is recording. We've been recording for the last 5 minutes._

Technology isn't exactly my strong suit. Do you think I'd be on guard duty if I had more "marketable" skills? I'm just a grunt, not one of you eggheads.

_I understand that, but being a "grunt," you are in a position that could cause more stress and we're trying to help you cope with that. Do you think you could do this again later?_

Yeah, I suppose so. If all else fails, I could just shoot the damn computer. I'd say that's pretty goddamn therapeutic.

_Right…_


	2. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: This story does and will contain some strong language, violence, some gore and some adult content. Reader discretion is advised.**

… And click that right there. Is it on? Ah fuck it… If it isn't right this time, there's no point. It's causing more stress. Oh, right… There's the icon.

How should I start? Like Robin Williams?

"GOOD MORNING VIETNAM!" (chuckles) Great movie…

Oh what does it matter? This is just "for me".

This is my first entry... It is Thursday, January 25, 2018. I'm Corporal Jesse "Superman" Anderson United States Marine Corps. Fort Dante, Pennsylvania.

I don't really see the point of all this "journal therapy" bullshit. I've never been the share and care type, so the idea of seeing a shrink has never been something I was interested in. I'm a very to-the-point type of guy and those things that are on my mind that I don't just come out and share, I internalize it and keep on going. But who knows? Maybe the good doctors could be onto something. So let's just start from the beginning.

I can't remember what the official story is regarding how the virus started. Hell, I don't think the officials really know how all of this shit got started. We sure knew when it came to light though; we all do. It was shown all over the fuckin' news for months. Everyone in the world had seen it through the Internet within a week, but you know how those media types are. The most common question had become: what were you doing when the Z's started killing?

Me? I was on a two week furlough from my current posting at Camp Lejeune, North Carolina. I had gone home to visit my parents in Kansas and was helping my father with the tractor when my sister burst out of the farmhouse and called for us to come see what was on the news. Dad told her the tractor was more important than anything "that blow-hard" could possibly have to say. I laughed at how much he hated my mom's favorite newscaster, but neither of us expected what my sister had said. "The Vice President has gone missing!" We dropped everything and ran into the house. My family was never overly political, we mostly thought that everyone in Washington was corrupt and weren't worth wasting our trust on. Thing is, when the VP goes missing, you run to the nearest TV to see what's up.

He had been on a diplomatic trip to France to address the problem of all those towns that had been emptied by an unknown "entity" and how America was going to help find those who had gone missing. Some genius from the White House thought it a good idea for the VP to visit one of the ghost towns as another show of support and "sadness" from the administration. Vice President James was meant to just walk through one of the primary schools to show that the classrooms seemed to have emptied in the middle of class, but when the news crew had "lost connection" with the station and weren't responding, the government immediately leapt into action. Rightfully so, our VP could have been kidnapped for all we knew and no one outside of that little town knew what was going on and at this point, most of the country was watching. Most of people thought nothing more than a satellite was out of whack or something techno-shit like that, but by the time Pops and I made into the family room, the reporters were reeling from the frantic sounds coming through the sat-phone one of the crew had had on them.

It had started with a confused producer getting a call from the station. "Why aren't we getting any of the feed?" one of the state-side executives had asked. The producer had been outside and hadn't heard nor seen anything from the crew that had entered the building well over a half an hour prior to the call; all seemed well from where she was standing. After being prompted to investigate by her superiors, she entered the building and the line went dead soon after. Minutes passed and then that infamous phone call began. The producer called the station in a desperate attempt for help, but rather than screen the call, the execs decided it was a good idea to send her straight to the anchors for a live audience that included most American families. I walked into the house and heard a tense voice coming from the television. "Oh my god! There's a trail of blood leading into a classroom, I hope everyone is okay…"

"What do you see Anna?" the Blow-hard asked, trying to get as much info out of her as he could.

"Oh Jesus! What the hell are you doing?" Then I heard the scream that haunts me even to this day.

"Anna? Anna! What is it? What's going on?" You could hear as the producer was scrambling away from something or someone, the terror was clear her pants as she tried to escape her pursuer.

"Oh God help me, please! PLEASE HELP ME!" There was a massive crash as she seemed to have tripped and hit the ground hard. The fall seemed to be pretty bad given that it had obviously knocked the wind out of her. We listened as she gasped for air; the fear was growing in us as the tension grew. Would she be able to get up?

"Anna! Anna? Can you hear me? The military is coming to get you out. Can you hear me?" The anchor shouted, hoping that Anna could make it outdoors for pickup. Anna groaned in pain and fear; this time even louder than before. We heard shuffling in the distance and a deep moaning, maybe someone else had been trying to escape as well.

"You stay the fuck away from me!" Anna shouted desperately. "You take one step closer and I will shoot!" She had a gun; why hadn't she shot her pursuer before? Could she actually do it?

Bam! Bam! Bam! We listened in as she emptied her clip into someone. "Anna! Are you alright?"

"What the fuck are you?" We could hear more moaning, but it sounded like it came from more than one person. The shuffling was getting louder as her pursuers got closer and closer to the phone. She ran away from them, leaving the phone on the floor of the building. The moans grew in number and in volume as they followed her; there was the slam of a door and the sound of an approaching helo before the feed was switched over to a French news chopper.

The footage showed a short, thin woman hobbling from the school building as if certain death was following her. Behind her the doors burst open with a crowd of people who all seemed to be injured in some way; none of them moving overly fast, but neither was she with what looked to be an injured ankle. She was moving as quickly as she could, dragging her right leg behind her as she tried to keep away from the mass of people. I couldn't tell why she was so afraid, but it soon became clear to me once the military helo opened fire. I could hear someone over the loudspeaker shouting what only could be warning as the group, but they weren't interested in those warnings. They were making their way to Anna as quickly as they could. The Tigre HAP opened fire with its 30 mils and tore through many of the mass, but they just kept coming.

Hundreds of these vicious people pouring out of the school; for every one they cut down, three came through the doors. I knew she wasn't going to make it to the Puma that had landed 25 meters from the entrance. The soldiers on board tried to give her covering fire as she ran, but one shot grazed her left shoulder as someone tried to pick off one of her pursuers that was just within reach. The shot knocked her off balance and she fell, the man chasing her fell on top of her and she fought with everything in her to keep him off. She seemed particularly afraid of his face, we found out why when her hand slipped away and he bit right into her neck. A soldier moved in close to get a better shot, taking out as many targets as he could as he got closer. The news crew kept rolling even as we watched the man continue to bite her and tear at her body, taking huge chunks of flesh with each one. It was the most disturbing thing a person could see and yet I couldn't take my eyes off of the screen. By the time the soldier got close enough to take a shot that would possibly kill Anna, she had stopped fighting and the man had done more damage than was survivable. He turned and ran back to his transport and the helo lifted off.

The broadcast switched back to the anchors state-side; they were frozen just as we were. The Blowhard cleared his throat and apologized to the viewers for such graphic footage and language. He continued on with the broadcast as best that could be done, but everything had turned to static for me. I had served in the war in Afghanistan, I had been under fire, but I had never experienced fear like this. No one in our family room made a sound, all we heard was the sound of the wind chimes on the porch and the garbled sound from the TV.

Where was I when the Z's started killing? Probably asking myself the same question you were: What were those things?


End file.
